


Rare and Beautiful

by kathkin



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: AU where Witchers have horns, Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Established Relationship, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier is in LOVE love, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, you might say Geralt is.... horny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:15:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26955706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathkin/pseuds/kathkin
Summary: Jaskier said that he missed Geralt every time they were apart for more than a few days. Sometimes in the spring he’d say it over and over with kisses,I missed you, I missed you, I missed you. Geralt didn't imagine he meant it.In which Jaskier and Geralt re-unite after a winter apart and Jaskier learns something new about Geralt's anatomy. Or, Geralt has horns (he files them down).
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 54
Kudos: 1100





	Rare and Beautiful

“Geralt!” Jaskier threw his arms around him, embracing him warmly as he did every spring. “Oh, I missed you, my friend.”

“You didn’t.”

Cautiously Geralt put an arm around Jaskier’s waist and, trying not to be too obvious, put his face to his neck and inhaled. Sometimes Jaskier noticed when he was scenting him and Geralt didn’t think he _minded_ , but he teased him about it. _Sniffing me again, Geralt_ , he’d laugh. _What is it? Do I stink? I’ll have you know I bathed yesterday._

They stood in the narrow, smoke-scented passageway of the inn. Jaskier’s hair was still damp from the rain. Geralt was damp all over, water dripping from the hem of his cloak.

Drawing back, sunnily smiling, Jaskier said, “you smell like a wet dog.”

“You smell like sandalwood,” said Geralt.

“Do you like it?” Jaskier cocked his head to the side. “I’m trying out something new.”

He hadn’t stopped touching Geralt. His hands drifted from his shoulders to his chest, to the fastenings of his cloak, which he toyed with. “It’s different,” Geralt said.

“Mm,” Jaskier agreed. He ducked his head forward for a kiss.

Two men stumbled out of the bar into the passage and they jerked apart. Jaskier nodded in greeting to the men as they squeezed past. “Pleasant trip?” he said to Geralt.

“No more than usual,” said Geralt. “Killed some drowners.”

“Oh, good for you.”

The men went outside. They were alone. Tugging him closer by the silver fastening of his cloak, Jaskier kissed him.

It was a good kiss, long and soft. It tasted like rain. He always forgot over the winter how good Jaskier’s kisses were. He wanted more. He wanted to kiss his mouth and kiss his thighs and kiss the inside of his wrists, wanted to keep him in bed till he didn’t smell like sandalwood any more – till Geralt’s scent was all over him.

But he’d waited all winter. He could wait a little longer.

“Mmm,” Jaskier sighed, pulling back. He toyed with the edge of Geralt’s cloak. “I think I’d like to take you upstairs and fuck your brains out.”

“You have a room?”

“ _Oh_ yes.” Jaskier reached for his hood, meaning to draw it back.

Geralt caught his wrist. “Don’t.”

“What?” Jaskier’s hand fell away. “Do you have guts in your hair again? _Please_ tell me you don’t have guts in your hair again.”

“I don’t have guts in my hair.” He didn’t know how to explain. When he’d walked into the inn and seen Jaskier he hadn’t known how to feel, let alone what to say, caught between delight and sudden, gut-twisting worry. “You’re early.”

“I am not.” Jaskier put a hand on his hip, striking an indignant pose. “I’m right on time.”

“I didn’t think you’d be here for another few days.”

“So you, what, just assumed I was going to be late?”

“Aren’t you always?”

Jaskier touched his chest in mock offence. “I confess that I am, sometimes, fashionably behind schedule, but I don’t see that that justifies your making assumptions about my punctuality. I’d say I’ve been on time for more things in my life than not. _Honestly_.”

Geralt looked up the passageway, looked at the door to the bar, where orange light and voices spilled out. “I just want to get cleaned up,” he said, “before I touch you.”

“Oh.” Contrite, Jaskier took a step back. “Well, in that case, by all means. Take as long as you want. Though since when are you so concerned about personal grooming?”

“Maybe you’re rubbing off on me,” said Geralt. “Give me an hour.”

*

He didn’t really believe that Jaskier missed him.

Jaskier said that he did – said it every time they were apart for more than a few days. Sometimes in the spring he’d say it over and over with kisses, _I missed you, I missed you, I missed you_ as he kissed Geralt’s neck and cheeks and forehead.

Geralt imagined he was like that with all his acquaintances. Occasionally they’d run into someone Jaskier knew and he would embrace them and say _oh, it’s been too long – I missed you so_. He called them all _my dear_ and _darling_. The words _I love you_ spilled from his lips so easily. Geralt didn’t imagine he meant it.

He could believe Jaskier missed the sex. He knew the sex was good. The last time they’d made love, before separating from the winter, he’d made Jaskier come so hard he could barely move afterwards. He’d lain in Geralt’s arms, still shuddering from the force of his climax, and said _oh gods, the things you do to me – no-one fucks me like you do._

Geralt believed him.

He stood in the room Jaskier had paid for, towelling off, properly clean for the first time since leaving Kaer Morhen. It was a nice room. Warm, and comfortable. The bed was big enough to fit them both easily.

There was something he needed to do first. He’d laid out his tools ready – the file and the knife. He was glad the room didn’t have a mirror. He didn’t need one and he didn’t care to look at himself.

He ought to have done it before leaving Kaer Morhen. He’d had time. But it was a tedious job and he hadn’t had the energy for it. He’d expected to have more time before seeing Jaskier.

Tossing the towel down on the chair, he reached for the file.

Then abruptly – too quickly for him to even think of covering himself – the door opened and learning around it Jaskier said, “Geralt, d’you want – oh my.”

Geralt’s insides filled with lead. “Jaskier,” he said in a warning tone.

Jaskier stepped fully into the room, letting the door fall closed behind him. “What happened to your _head?_ ”

“Go back downstairs.”

“Is it a spell?” said Jaskier, surveying him – surveying his horns, that curled creamy-grey on either side of his head. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” said Geralt. “Go back downstairs. I’ll deal with this.”

But there wasn’t any fixing it, really. He’d known the moment the door opened that there’d be no fixing this. There he was, fully naked, horns and all, and Jaskier had seen all of him. There was no taking it back. His skin crawled. Chills ran up and down his spine.

“What happened?” said Jaskier, coming closer. “Can I help?”

“Nothing happened. Go downstairs.” _Look away_ , he wanted to say. _Stop looking at me_. The last time a human had seen his horns they’d screamed and run from him. Jaskier wasn’t running, yet. The look on his face was horror-struck.

“I mean, I think _something’s_ happened –”

“Jaskier,” Geralt interrupted. “It’s a witcher thing.”

Tearing his gaze from the horns, Jaskier met his eyes. “ _Excuse_ me?”

“It’s a witcher thing,” Geralt said again. “We all have them.”

Jaskier wasn’t running. He was coming still closer, treading softly on the floorboards as if approaching a wild animal. “I really think I would have noticed a thing like that.”

“As I said,” said Geralt. “We deal with it.”

“Deal with –” Jaskier’s eyes fell on the file and knife, sitting upon the washstand. “Oh.” As he took it in fully, the truth of it, his face twisted in disgust. “ _Oh_.”

He should have hacked them off and filed them down at Kaer Morhen. He shouldn’t have planned on Jaskier being late. The look of disgust, in his eyes. He’d never touch Geralt again. His stomach was heavy with that knowledge, with the realisation that it was over.

To have had something this good, and then have it snatched away – he’d known it would happen eventually, but not tonight. He hadn’t been ready to lose it tonight.

Tearing his eyes away from the file, Jaskier said, “why didn’t you tell me?”

“I don’t,” said Geralt, “tell people.”

“You could have told me,” said Jaskier. “Wait, is this – is this why you won’t let me touch your hair?”

Geralt grunted in affirmation.

Jaskier took a step closer. He was an arm’s length away, his eyes trained on the horns, tracing their curving shapes; the arch up from above his temples, the curling loop back down, the sharp points level with his earlobes. Geralt had a sudden, irrational urge to cover himself, to put his hands over them and shield them from Jaskier’s searching eyes.

“And you,” said Jaskier, “file them off?” Geralt nodded. “Doesn’t that hurt?”

“Not badly.” It only hurt when filing them right down to the quick, close to his skull. He was used to it.

“Then why’d you do it?”

“You know why.”

Jaskier tilted his head, trying to get a better look at then. Geralt flinched. “Go back downstairs,” he said. “I’ll deal with this.”

“If you want me to go then I shall,” said Jaskier. “But.”

“But what?”

Jaskier wet his lips. “Can I touch them?”

He hadn’t expected Jaskier to be afraid, for Jaskier had never been afraid of him. But he’d expected revulsion. Once in the early days of their acquaintance Jaskier had run his fingers through his hair and brushed the rough edge of a filed-down horn. He had recoiled, snatching his hand away and demanding to know what he’d touched. Geralt had mumbled that it was a scar and distracted him with kisses.

He hadn’t expected this. He didn’t even know what _this_ was.

He nodded.

Moving closer, Jaskier reached out. He traced his fingers over the curve of a horn, feeling its ridges with his thumb, following the curl of it around to the point. “Can you feel this?”

“Not really,” said Geralt. “It’s like – fingernails.”

“I see.” Jaskier’s hand curled around the horn, holding it as if weighing it in his palm. “They’ve got so many colours in them.”

He’d been disgusted, but now his disgust had given way to curiosity – fascination, even. He was looking at Geralt’s horns as if he was trying to make sense of them. As if he’d come upon a rare and beautiful flower.

“They don’t feel like I thought they would,” said Jaskier.

“How so?”

“Softer,” Jaskier said. “You’ve really always had them?”

“Since I became a witcher,” said Geralt. “They’re still new.” Jaskier glanced at his face, not comprehending. “That’s why they’re soft.”

“Oh, I see.” Very gently, Jaskier touched the place where the horn met his skull. 

Geralt shifted. Taking Jaskier’s wrist he tugged his hand away. “No?” said Jaskier.

“I should get dressed.”

“Do you have to?” Jaskier asked. “Seems a bit of a waste of time, putting your clothes on just so I can rip them off again.”

His throat went tight. “You still,” he managed, “want to?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Geralt’s heart throbbed, once, in his chest. “Give me half an hour.”

“I’m not sure I want to wait half an hour.” Jaskier’s hands pressed into his chest, holding him in place.

“That’s how long it takes.”

“Hm.” Reaching up, Jaskier took ahold of his horn once again, gripping it more confidently. The tip of his tongue poked out, running across his lower lip. “You could keep them,” he said. “For tonight.”

He knew what Jaskier was implying. But he couldn’t just assume, that that was what he was implying – he couldn’t let himself believe it. It was dizzying. “Would you,” he ventured, “like that?”

Jaskier tilted his head to the side. “Yes,” he said. “I think I would.”

He wasn’t just fascinated. He was _aroused_. Geralt hadn’t noticed straight away, distracted by how strange and disconcerting it was, having Jaskier looking at them – touching them – but he could smell it, the first stirrings of Jaskier’s arousal, that deliciously familiar scent.

A smile spread across his face. “You like them.”

“I,” releasing the horn Jaskier spread his hands, “just happen to feel that they, accentuate your other features very nicely.”

“You _like_ them.”

“They’re very nice.”

“They turn you on.”

“A bit!” Jaskier’s face was flushing a pretty pink. “Just a – a little bit.” He took a deep breath.

Geralt didn’t often see Jaskier flustered. He wasn’t an easy man to fluster. But he was _very_ flustered – and more than a little bit aroused. “Can I –” Jaskier motioned at them vaguely. “Hold onto them? While we – is that a thing you do? Does it feel –”

“I don’t know,” said Geralt. “I’ve never – bedded anyone while I had horns.”

“Oh.” Jaskier clasped his hands together. “Oh my. Geralt, my darling, _please_ keep them. For me?”

Geralt looked away.

“I, I don’t want to do anything to make you uncomfortable,” said Jaskier. “But –”

“Just for tonight?” Geralt met his eyes.

Jaskier’s face broke into a smile. “Just tonight,” he agreed. Then cupping Geralt’s face in his hand he kissed him soundly.

It was a deeper kiss than downstairs, with more heat in it – heat, but no urgency. They had all night.

 _Fuck_ , but he’d missed this. Jaskier’s body in his arms – Jaskier’s tongue in his mouth – Jaskier’s scent, surrounding him. Jaskier sucked on his tongue and shivers danced up and down his spine. He tightened his grip on Jaskier’s waist, holding him closer.

Reaching up, Jaskier’s hand curled once again around his horn – and then he _tugged_ on it firmly, tilting Geralt’s head so he could deepen the kiss, and Geralt’s breath left him.

He felt that tug in his skull, in his throat, in the nape of his neck. He’d had them pulled on before, but only in a fight. Not like this. This was an intimacy he’d never experienced before. It made heat pool in his stomach. He suppressed a growl.

He pulled away to breathe.

“No?” Jaskier’s grip on his horn loosened.

Geralt plucked at the fastenings of his doublet. “Take this off.”

“ _Oh_ yes.”

Soon enough he had Jaskier right where he wanted him – in his lap, naked and wriggling and hard. Jaskier’s arms were looped around his neck and he was dropping kisses on Geralt’s open mouth. “Mm,” he said between kisses. “Oh – you’re so –”

Everything was slippery with oil, golden trails of it on his hands and Jaskier’s thighs and buttocks glittering in the candlelight and Geralt wanted to be inside him so much that his chest ached with it. “I want to fuck you so bad,” he said. “Are you ready?”

“Fuck yes I am.” Reaching under himself Jaskier wrapped a hand around Geralt’s cock and stroked it, once, before lining himself up. Bearing down he took it, slowly, rocking his hips, adjusting to the feel.

Geralt didn’t think he’d ever get used to this, to how warm and yielding and _good_ Jaskier felt around him. He hoped he’d never get used to it.

“Mmm.” A hand on his neck, Jaskier kissed him wetly. “You feel _so_ good in me, love.” He touched one of Geralt’s horns. “May I?”

“Yeah,” Geralt breathed. “Yeah.”

Jaskier took a horn in each hand and – _fuck_ – used them to pull himself up. Biting his lip he sank back down and did it again, and again, using Geralt’s horns as leverage to ride his cock. His face was flushed and his skin was rosy gold in the low light and Geralt didn’t think anything had ever felt so –

Geralt grunted as with an especially hard tug Jaskier pulled his head back. “Alright?” said Jaskier, pausing.

“Alright,” he managed. Jaskier grinned down at him.

More than alright. He ran his hands down Jaskier’s slick flanks to his backside, squeezing, feeling his muscles work as he rode him. Jaskier always had some extra padding on him after the winter, on his ass and thighs and belly. Geralt liked it. It made him especially nice to touch and squeeze.

“You feel – so _goo_ d in me,” Jaskier said, sinking down onto his cock. “You gorgeous – gorgeous man –”

“Yeah,” Geralt grunted, thrusting up into him, working his hips, meeting him as he bore down. It was so good. He wanted it to last. He wasn’t going to last. They had all night.

They had all spring.  
He said, “can I –” and Jaskier breathed, “ _yes_ ,” and taking him by the hips Geralt rolled him over.

Jaskier let out a delighted laugh as he was rolled onto his back and he was still laughing when Geralt pressed into him, his laughter breaking down into gasps and curses as Geralt began to fuck him properly.

He knew how Jaskier liked it. He knew how to hit his sweet spot, the angles that drew the most delicious noises out of him. Jaskier’s legs wrapped around his waist, pushing up, up against him, and grabbing one of Geralt’s horns he dragged him down for a kiss.

It almost undid him, being touched like that. He couldn’t hold back his growl as he buried his face in Jaskier’s neck and breathed him in – as he fucked him still harder.

“Ohh, you like that – _oh_ ,” Jaskier gasped. “Oh my, oh, oh, _Geralt_ –”

Jaskier grunted softly at each thrust, a steady chorus of _ah, ah, ah_ , as Geralt pounded into him. His hand fell from Geralt’s horn, reaching down between their bodies to touch himself.

He fucked Jaskier right through his climax, fucked him as he cried out, as he gasped for breath, as he whimpered, over-stimulated. Only when he went limp, legs slipping down onto the bed, muscles going lax, did Geralt pull out. He took himself in hand and in two blissful strokes came all over Jaskier’s belly.

“Oh, fuck me.” Jaskier lay back against the pillows, one hand flung over his eyes, still breathing hard. “You know how to treat me right.”

“Yeah,” Geralt agreed. He slumped down beside Jaskier, rolling onto his back, groaning aloud in contentment. “Mmm.”

Jaskier sputtered out a laugh. He rolled onto his side and regarded Geralt over the curve of his horn. “I missed this.”

Geralt believed him.

Jaskier still smelled faintly of sandalwood, the scent clinging to his skin, to his hair. Geralt would have to fuck him again, to run his hands all over his body, kiss every inch of skin he could, to chase it away. In the morning, at breakfast, Jaskier would have his scent all over him. No-one will be able to tell. But Geralt would know.

Sighing, Jaskier traced the curve of his horn with his fingertips. He explored its point, rubbing his thumb over and over the tip. “I wish you’d told me.”

Geralt raised his head, startled. “Why?”

“Because I want to know you,” said Jaskier. “Because I don’t like to think that you feel you have to keep things from me.”

“I keep things from everyone,” said Geralt. “It’s in my nature.”

“I know, and I _do_ respect that,” said Jaskier. “But you can tell me anything. If you want to.”

“Can I, now?” said Geralt. “How do I know it won’t end up in a song?”

Jaskier clapped a hand to his chest with an exaggerated gasp. “Geralt!” he said. “Really. I have _some_ discretion.”

Geralt let out a dubious snort.

“I do!” Jaskier protested. “I shan’t be putting the horns in any songs, for one thing. Don’t worry.”

“I wasn’t,” said Geralt.

“Good.” Jaskier lapsed back into silent contemplation of his horns. “It’s just,” he said at length, “I hate to think of you hurting yourself on my account.”

“It doesn’t hurt much.”

“But it _does_ hurt.”

“Barely,” said Geralt. “I’m used to it.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what _is_ the point?”

“The point,” said Jaskier, running his fingertips up and down Geralt’s horn. “The point is, I love all of you. Even the unsightly parts you’d rather file off.

The words _I love you_ spilled from Jaskier’s lips so easily. Geralt didn’t imagine he meant it. But he remembered it. He remembered every single time, right back to the very first – half a year into their acquaintance, when he’d bought Jaskier some bread and soup when he was badly hungover and he’d said blithely, _oh, you star, I love you._

He’d remember this time with a special fondness.

He said, “hm.”

Ducking his head down, Jaskier touched his lips to the surface of Geralt’s horn in a brief kiss. Geralt’s chest went tight.

Jaskier propped himself up on one elbow, and sighed. “Are you hungry?” he said. “Because I am _famished_. I think I’d like to eat like a pig and then have another round. What do you say?”

“Sounds good,” said Geralt. “I missed you.”

One corner of Jaskier’s mouth curled up into a smile. “Of course you did,” he said. “Who wouldn’t?”

Leaning down, he kissed Geralt one last time, soft and lingering, before climbing out of bed in search of dinner.

*

He woke before Jaskier, as he usually did. Left to his own devices Jaskier slept long into the morning. Geralt left him in bed and at the washstand began the arduous process of removing his horns.

He could always tell when Jaskier woke up, for he began mumbling and snuffling to himself the moment he was awake. “G’morning,” he said. The bed creaked as he sat up.

Geralt grunted, his teeth gritted. The knife was close to the quick. It stung.

“Already?” said Jaskier. He sounded vaguely disappointed.

“Wanted to get it over with.”

“Can I help?”

“No.”

He was dimly aware of Jaskier approaching him, the pad of his footsteps on the rug, the creak of the floorboards. He was intent on his task. He’d hoped to have it done before Jaskier woke up.

A last dull _snap_ and the second horn came away in his hand. “Ouch,” said Jaskier, just behind him. “Can I –” He held out his hand in silent request.

Geralt put the shed horn in his palm. He turned it over, running his thumb over its rough edge. “It’s strange,” he remarked. “You think you know a person and then seven years in you find out they grow horns. I suppose that’s life, isn’t it?”

“If you say so.” He needed to see to the stumps. He reached for the file, but Jaskier put his hand atop his. “I need to finish –”

“Shh,” said Jaskier, wrapping his arms around Geralt’s waist, embracing him. “In a moment.”

He smelled so good, like salt and sex and like Geralt. He wanted to breathe him in. He inhaled.

“Hm.” Shifting in his arms, Jaskier tilted his head, baring his neck. “Alright, go on. You know you want to.”

“I thought you didn’t like it?”

“I never said that,” said Jaskier. “Go on! Have a sniff.”

He hesitated a moment longer. Then putting an arm around Jaskier’s waist he tugged him closer and buried his face in his neck. Jaskier’s scent filled him up, salt and musk and chamomile, the faintest ghost of sandalwood, _Jaskier_. The scent of springtime. He hummed happily.

Jaskier laughed. “You’re so weird,” he said, but he didn’t say it unkindly.

**Author's Note:**

> I picture Geralt's horns as something like [this](https://www.researchgate.net/figure/A-rams-horns-the-possible-source-for-spirals-in-Neolithic-Art_fig23_317433973). Small enough to fit under his hood. Big enough for hmm grabbing. ;)


End file.
